


Honi Soit Qui Mal y Pense

by JaneHudson



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, But he does make an appearance eventually I swear, Character Study, Child Death, F/M, Gen, Petyr is mostly only there in Sansa's mind, Sansa and Arya are a great and loving sister team, Sansa-centric, Slow Burn, Suicide, TW: Suicide, book and show canons are mixed for my purposes, but i hope there will be some feels, petyr makes his first appearance in chapter 2, there's not going to be much smut i'm sorry, this is not a meticulous exercise in canon observance, tw: child death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-07 21:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17373767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneHudson/pseuds/JaneHudson
Summary: Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen have assumed the Iron Throne and guided the Seven Kingdoms through a short, fierce winter. Jon's cousin Sansa dispenses justice in Winterfell as Wardeness of the North, much to the displeasure of her lords, who chafe against her restrictions. Even Sansa's allies agree that she seems to be stuck in winter while the rest of the world is reveling in the rites of spring. Arya Stark hopes the presence of a new ward will help draw out her beloved older sister, but he seems to keep her more firmly rooted in the unpleasant past...Ch. 5: Sansa and Petyr reunite somewhere between now and never. Sansa demands certain pledges from her Mockingbird.The events covered in the trigger warnings are mentioned in this chapter/the summary in the notes, but they are not described in any detail.





	1. The Ancient Ice

**Author's Note:**

> \--You wonderful PxS writers have inspired me to write my first fanfic in two decades. This means I'm a little clumsy with newer tagging systems. I've tried my best to tag correctly and completely, but I'm sure I've made some errors. Please alert me to them ASAP so I can fix them.  
> \--Let's just assume that the whole "Petyr marries Sansa to Ramsay" thing never happened, because really, WTF?!  
> \--Let's assume that Sansa and Arya presided over an actual trial and convicted/executed Baelish for his role in the murder of Jon Arryn, among other things.  
> \--Let's assume Bran is alive, but out doing Bran things and not a huge presence at Winterfell. (One of the reasons I initially loved ASOIAF was due to the relative paucity of magic in Martin's universe, so I struggle to integrate characters like Bran, especially in a study of characters like Sansa and Petyr, who are so interesting precisely because they have few weapons against magic.)  
> \--Like I said, it's been a long time since I did this. I welcome critique, especially re: the previous point.
> 
> I discovered Ao3's treasure trove of PxS fic a few months ago when I decided to google and see if Winds of Winter would ever be done. I had distanced myself from the books/show for a lot of reasons, but the PxS work here has reminded me of what drew me to Petyr and Sansa as characters in the first place. So many of you have written fic that has spoken to this old woman on a lot of levels, and I hope this humble little contribution ends up giving some of you even a fraction of the enjoyment you all have given me. Thank you.

Sansa always thought she would be the one who reveled and glowed in motherhood. Perhaps there was a world—a better world?—where that would have come to pass.

But those were Arya’s two sons out there in the courtyard, playing around with their mother and Ser Morley, brandishing wooden swords. Arya was beaming, and Sansa was sitting in a chair, ramrod straight, still as stone, staring at her nephews as hard as she could to try and make herself understand them, connect to them.

But she couldn’t: Sansa Stark was the last remnant of Winter, still encased in ancient ice, sundered from all the fresh, pumping _life_ that flourished around her.

*

Hard, arrogant footsteps escaped through all the little gaps in the windows that Sansa intentionally left askew throughout Winterfell. She sighed gently. What kernels of wisdom would her lords unintentionally utter in her presence today?

“There sits…pretty as a picture…”

“I’d put a new expression on her face…”

“…be less uptight…. _justice,_ good gods…”

Ah yes, her two great maester sages, Andar Royce and Gawen Glover, were continuing their deep philosophical discourse, which, as far as she had pieced together, boiled down to the proposition that she would be a more pleasing—by which they meant permissive—Wardeness if only she could know the glory of being married to a ‘real’ man. They were, of course, both real men.

This was why the only thing she had ever asked of Jon was to allow her to name Arya’s sons as her heirs and to promise she would never have to marry again.

Lord Royce was still prattling on and Sansa felt bile rise in her throat. She would have rather married Bronze Yohn’s bones than so much as permit his son to touch her hand.

For not the first time, Sansa wished that she was a man. Then no one would tell her that, since she was nearly thirty, she should be _grateful_ for the leering and disgusting remarks of her oh-so-loyal lords. They would get over the fact that she wasn't going to marry. People would look at her and see thoughts, accomplishments, virtues, and skills instead of beauty.

If, if, if.

Looking out in the courtyard again, she could only see ghosts: Robb and Bran, Arya in all her glory as a little girl. Ser Rodrik. Her uncle.

Her father.

Surely there was business to attend to.

Naturally, when she rose, Brynden, her youngest nephew, looked up.

“Aunt Sansa, look!” He took a clumsy swing at his mother. It lightly grazed her elbow, but Arya put on a good show, acting like she had been felled by a mighty blow.

“Well struck, my young ser!” said Sansa, trying to be as noble and gracious as possible, channeling a bard’s heroine. She knew so much better, but she was very invested in enveloping her nephews in a song.

It was at that point that she noticed the third boy in the corner of the courtyard. Ser Morley was trying to help him make a basic parry, and the child looked positively out of place, even with a mere play weapon in his hand.

Sansa supposed this must be Wylis Manderly’s heir. She had been told he was a winter child twice over: born in the frigid, dying gasps of the cold to an obscenely ancient father and obscenely young mother. Sansa had agreed to take him in at Winterfell, where he could know boys his own age and learn how to become what fate had decreed he must become, the Lord of White Harbor. He had been here for a couple of days, but Sansa had paid him little mind, leaving him in the hands of those who were more interested and capable.

She looked at the tiny boy again. What fool member of her household had told her he was nearly eleven?

*

Sansa liked it when Arya sat in her study. They often sat together for hours in silent solidarity. Sansa usually broke these silences, and today was no exception.

“I see the Manderly boy is starting to settle in.”

“He’s a sweet young thing,” Arya said. “He and Rickard get along very well.”

“It’s sweet of Rickard to be patient and kind to a younger boy.”

“I don’t follow?”

“Arya! He can’t be more than seven!”

“Sansa! What kind of person do you think I am? I would never let a child that young spar with my boys.”

“Oh—I, I meant no offense. I don’t know when boys—children—when they’re old enough to—”

Arya laughed.

Sansa smiled, and took a moment to compose herself again.

“Is he actually Rickard’s age? Almost eleven? He’s so…small.”

Sansa immediately wished she had used any other word. Stupid girl, she had summoned the _one_ shadow that remained between her and her sister. She knew they were now both thinking of the exact same conversation from a lifetime ago.

“ _When I was a child, I was very small…”_

She drew a sharp breath and felt herself involuntarily retreating, going deeper into the ice. “Please ask Ser Morley to make sure no harm comes to him.”

Arya--dear, gracious Arya--nodded once and left without a word.

*

Sansa watched the boys practice every single day. She told herself it was because she wanted to show her nephews she was proud.

She wondered how many people noticed that she could barely tear her eyes from her poor little ward. Sansa felt a stirring of pity—unbecoming, dangerous pity—every time she watched him try so very hard to stand toe-to-toe with the sons of a blacksmith and an assassin.

He never succeeded. Sansa knew he never would.

She always came down to congratulate and encourage them when practice was done. She would hold the small boy’s eyes longer than those of her nephews.

She had to search his little grey eyes every day, holding her breath, hoping to find them free of pain and anger and hurt just one more time.

Every day with this boy was a borrowed gift. One day that hope, that willingness to try again, that belief that it was going to be not just okay, but _beautiful_ would be gone and it would never, ever come back. Sansa knew, oh gods yes she knew, what would be in those eyes instead. The pain of betrayal and injustice papered over by cleverness and cunning and an all-encompassing avariciousness. Eyes that were…dangerous? Alluring? The root of all her misery? The safest harbor she had ever had?

All these years later, and Sansa still didn’t know. Not for a lack of dwelling on the matter, of course. After all, _those_ eyes were always the last thing she saw before finally falling asleep.


	2. A Glacial Pace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa develops a peculiar bond with her ward Wyndan Manderly and seeks advice for her political woes from a familiar source.

The boys were out in the courtyard and Sansa had joined them, as the sun was shining there. Apparently her nephews were staging a “joust.” Rickard was protesting because Arya had given favors to him _and_ his brother.

Sansa could hear him on the other side of the courtyard. “ _Mother,_ ladies can only give favors to one knight!” Arya just shrugged her shoulders. Brynden had immediately run off with his favor and was using part of an old cart as a barrier, just in case his brother came after him for it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she observed that the little Manderly boy—Wyndan was apparently his name—was watching her nephews with great interest. Then, he started walking toward her.

_Oh please no, please, please, please no. I want to weave a song, not a mummer’s farce._

“Lady Stark,” he said, looking up very carefully, “C-can I have a favor too?”

Sansa was deeply ashamed that her very first thought upon looking at his face was, _Mother, how could you have been such a monster?_

Her hands trembled a bit—if anyone asked, she’d claim she was cold—as she unfastened a brooch and pinned it to him. He tried to reach up to hug her around the neck, but could only reach to her waist.

She heard a derisive chuckle and looked up to see Gawen Glover. She narrowed her eyes, locked him in her gaze, and pressed little Wyndan’s head to her breasts. Then she smiled: thin, practiced, insincere.

Lord Glover had never been observant enough to realize that some smiles never reached the eyes.

She let Wyndan free himself and helped him straighten his “armor.”

“I am honored to have you wear my favor, Ser Wyndan,” Sansa said and she smiled again. That was what the role of A Lady required. Courtesy and a smile.

“Aunt Sansa!” called Rickard. “You have to—I mean, can you please move aside?”

Sansa bowed toward him and bowed toward Wyndan and went over to stand next to her sister.

She leaned down and whispered to Arya. “What are they actually going to do?”

Arya chuckled. “Ser Morley will give them each a shield and a useless blunt sword and they will run at one another. They're not used to doing this with actual swords, so most of the time, they will completely miss. Every now and then, one of them will accidentally knock the other down.”

She looked and Sansa’s face and laughed, loudly. “I wish I had a mirror so you could see how confused you look. It’s simple: all we have to do is stand here and look as impressed as possible.”

Sansa smiled—thin and practiced, but sincere—and nodded.

True to Arya’s word, it took some time before someone landed a hit. Surprisingly, it was Brynden who got the best of his older brother. That meant he got to go twice in a row.

Brynden and Wyndan ran at each other, and Brynden landed a second hit.

Sansa was aware of two noises. Arya was shouting: “Brynden! Ser Morley told you, not that hard! This is a game and he’s _little_!”

The other noise was terrible, terrible shrieking.

As Sansa was cradling the little boy in her arms, she became aware that the shrieks and the cries of “He’s bleeding! There’s so much blood! Help him!” were hers. 

* 

Sansa slowly opened one eye. She could tell by the sliver of light on the floor that the door was still cracked. She closed her eye again and resumed deep breathing while straining to hear the conversation going on in the corridor. Her sister was talking to someone.

“…all it is…bad memory…she saw her father…just needs…and quiet…”

Oh gods, she must have fainted.

Her eye continued to wander, and she saw Wyndan, sleeping. _But the blood—wasn’t there…no?_  

Sansa sighed. It had happened again. There hadn’t been any blood. The little boy was going to be fine. She had just…panicked.

No one had been able to say precisely when Sansa had developed her crippling fear of bladed weapons. Maester Rhander had explained to the two sisters that many people had developed such fears after all the years of terrifying war and it was nothing to be ashamed of. But, of course, it wouldn’t do for everyone to know the Wardneness of the North could be sent into a fit by the mere sound of men sparring for amusement outside her window. For years, she and Arya had woven an intricate web of rules, “traditions,” and lies to conceal the extent of her fear. Arya, bless her, was out there lying for her again.

Sansa heard the door shut and popped her eye fully open. She let out a little amused gasp when she discovered herself staring at one of Wyndan’s grey eyes. There was cleverness there. How had she not seen it before? Because it wasn’t twinned with anger or cunning?  
  
“Were you pretending too?” she mouthed at him.  
  
“Yes,” he whispered back.

Sansa smiled. This felt delightfully conspiratorial.  
  
“Are you OK?”

He nodded. “I just have a bruise. Are you OK, Lady Stark?”

“Yes. And please just call me Lady Sansa.” She sat up in her bed. “Now, let me see that bruise.”

“Why?”

“Ser Wyndan, in every song _I_ have ever read, the lady makes sure that her knight has recovered from his injuries.”

She could see his little mind working, scanning through all the tales he knew. Apparently, her explanation was satisfactory, because he sat up and pointed to his upper chest.

Maester Rhander had done a fine job, of course, but Sansa changed the bandages and sang him a song so he would go back to sleep.

When Arya woke her the next morning, she was still in the chair by his bed.

“You’re better?”

“Of course, thank you so much. I’m sorry to have created difficulty again.”

“I know this will shock you, but your lords are none the wiser.” Arya chuckled and winked. “Can I get you anything?”

“You’ve done more than enough, as always. I’ll get myself something to eat in a bit. It is warm out? I might take a walk.”

Sansa wondered why Arya seemed unnaturally pleased to hear Sansa ask about the weather.

“It’s beautiful. I’m sure a walk would do you good.”

*

“Ser Wyndan, shall we take a walk before we get something to eat?”

The little boy looked unsure.

Sansa let out a practiced sigh. “Ser Wyndan, when a lady gives you her favor, you must walk and talk with her. It is courtesy.”

“Wh-where should we walk, my Lady Sansa?”

“My lady sister and I have started to grow a garden. I should very much like to see how it is responding to the nice weather.”

 _What a sight we must make,_ thought Sansa. Like a good knight, he had taken her hand and was leading her around the little garden. The sun was warm and they were joined by almost all the lords and ladies who were in residence at Winterfell to ask Sansa for judgements about this or to settle negotiations about that. Sansa tensed every time she overheard a snicker or part of a rude jest. She was also not happy about the fact that Andar Royce had convened a mini-meeting of some of her lords in plain sight. She’d written to Jon about this. Surely his reply would be waiting for her tonight.

Wyndan tugged at her hand a bit.

“Would you like to look at those flowers, Lady St-Sansa?”

“They are very beautiful, Ser Wyndan. We should look at them.”

The flowers hadn’t blossomed, but the buds were a pleasingly calm and delicate pink.

Out of nowhere, Wyndan said, “I know your lords are laughing at me, Lady Sansa. It’s because I’m little and I look silly walking with you.”

Sansa kneeled down so she was at eye level with him. “No,” she said, “they are making those rude comments because they are jealous. Did you know all of them have asked me to walk with them and I have told all of them no?”

She could tell he did not believe her.

“I promise I’m being truthful, Wyndan.” Dropping the “ser” seemed to make things more real to him. His eyes suggested he was inclined to believe her now.

“As for being little, as you put it, I want you to listen to me. There’s nothing wrong with being small. One of the most powerful men I ever knew was your size as a boy. You should come to me and I can tell you about him.”

The voice in her head shouted, _Sansa Stark, have you taken leave of your senses?_

“But everyone else makes japes.”

“And shame on them for thinking ill of it,” Sansa replied. “You don’t need a sword or a mace to reshape the world,” she said. “I promise I’ll show you.” 

*

Sansa was looking forward to a quiet night in her own bedroom. Unfortunately, she was not alone.

He was leaning against her little desk, immaculately dressed in a brocade of mottled greens, grinning. The genuine, unmasked smiles marked the most disconcerting difference between this apparition and the flesh and blood he once was. She had never been able to accustom herself to such displays of unfiltered joy, not from him.

He moved from the desk to her chair and clutched his hands to his chest. “I missed you last night. Have I, your devoted servant, displeased you? For what other reason could you deny me one of our precious assignations?”

Sansa got into bed and pulled her cover up to her chin. She was not in the mood. “Do shut up, Lord Baelish.”

“Oh, my darling Sansa is cranky.” The apparition leaned his head back over the chair’s arm, so that Sansa was looking at his face upside down. “What happened, Sweetling?”

Sansa was about to tell him, but stopped herself. _I’m insane,_ she thought. _Completely insane._

Sansa truly had no idea if the spirit currently splayed across her chair was an actual ghost, or just some long-running fiendish fancy.

He’d been coming to her, usually once every four or five sunsets, ever since the first night she had been taken by fear of the swords. She’d been very angry with him that night, and had demanded her mother or her father or her brother Robb. But he had stayed there, silently suffering under her barrage of verbal abuse. And he kept coming back.

She’d never told anyone about “Lord Baelish” because nothing good happened to women who were deemed sick in the head and because she had, despite herself, come to enjoy his company. The apparition was her creature, unreservedly, and that was a great comfort.

“Sweetling? _I,_ of course, have all the time in the world, but I imagine you would like to sleep for at least a little while. Unburden yourself to me. Let me share your troubles, poor lady.”

“Stop being overwrought and say witty things that make me laugh. I command it.”

The apparition tossed his arm against his forehead in mock indignation.

“O gods, do you see how she _uses_ me? When shall I know the dignity of being appreciated for my body instead of my incomparably quick wit and sharp mind?”

Sansa laughed. “Do shut up, Petyr.”

The apparition sat back up in the chair and smiled at her. “That’s better. So, tell me, what is wrong? What are the Northern dullards up to now?”

For some reason, Sansa did not want to tell the apparition about Wyndan. Fortunately, the realm’s politics provided plenty of fodder, and she knew that mocking others’ failures brought him great joy.

“I am almost entirely certain that Lead Andar Royce is trying to stir up discontent. He’s quite annoyed at me because I won’t let him shamelessly exploit his smallfolk.”

“And what do the King and Queen have to say about this?”

Sansa rolled her lips.

“They have not yet given me instruction.”

The apparition sat up in the chair, put both his hands to his chin and gasped. “Goodness _,_ I can’t possibly believe your dear cousin and his wife—aunt—queen aren’t adequately prepared for this eventuality.”

Sansa opened her mouth to object, but the apparition stopped her. “Don’t try to defend them, Sweetling. We both knew this would eventually happen. The two of them have a certain irritatingly noble heroism that inspires people in eras where good and evil are”—and here he couldn’t conceal his boredom—“ _unambiguous_ , but is wholly unsuited to the depressing banality of ruling inconstant, easily confused humans.”

Sansa was silent. The apparition sat down next to her on the bed and placed his hand close to where hers was hiding under the covers.

“Oh, I know you feel bad for thinking ill of your cousin and his wife, who really do have good intentions, which is, of course, quite sweet of them. But was this not why someone suggested long ago that perhaps you should have been named Queen?” He peered at her and she could see his eyes in all their glorious detail, even in the dark.

_Damn his eyes!_

It was a long time before Sansa could work out what was safe to say.

“You’re proud that you were right about me, aren’t you?”

“More than you could possibly know, my priceless Sansa.”

For not the first time, Sansa became irrationally angry about the fact that he was able to touch everything in that room except for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balanced chapters...what are balanced chapters? I probably should have split this into two, but I didn't want to delay Lord Bae's appearance.


	3. Deep Currents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa may finally be ready to embrace spring, but she has to teach Wyndan some tough lessons first. Later, Arya and Petyr help her cope with a terrible mistake.

The whispers and the talk slipped through all the little cracks in the windows for Sansa to hear. Her lords now mixed their inappropriate comments about what they would do to her body with cutting remarks about how she was letting herself become a dried-up old nurse maid.

Sansa wondered what her father would have done with them. What Arya wanted to do to them (she’d never had the courage to ask directly). What Petyr—the flesh-and-blood one, not her apparition-hallucination—would have done.

All Sansa felt she could do was laugh it off. As it she hadn’t known worse.

But, as she laughed, she also noted that what had once been a small grouping of lords had gotten larger.

Not large enough that it couldn’t be countered. Gendry had been dispatched to invite some “guests” to a feast to celebrate the first real bounties of the Spring. She’d dropped little hints that a royal presence would be in attendance. That was untrue, of course. Jon had answered her requests for him to come, and with lots of men, with platitudes that Sansa knew meant "no," but what the lords didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. It would be easy enough to suggest the King and Queen were called away at the last moment.

The little bits of conversation had finally stopped filtering in and Sansa's lingering irritation dissipated as her little slip of a ward pushed the heavy door open. Wyndan always came to her around this time, after was what invariably another frustrating and miserable spell out in the courtyard.

Sansa was amused by how easy he was to talk to. Over the past few weeks she’d talked to him almost as much as she talked to Petyr. And almost as much as Petyr had talked to her.

She had realized early on that she was Wyndan’s Petyr. A more moral and much kinder Petyr, but his Petyr nonetheless. Being his Petyr had allowed her to understand her own real-life Petyr in new ways.

Littlefinger had always seemed so angry at the world, despite the success he had made of it. (Until she had Arya cut his throat, anyway). People just assumed it was because of her dear mother, but lately Sansa had started to wonder. She had never realized how much there was to be angry about.

Sansa was angry that Wyndan would never be allowed to be a maester or a singer or something that would bring him joy. He would have to manage a snake’s nest of his own, just like she did, even though he was about as well-suited for it as she was (which was to say, not at all). He would have to produce heirs because he wasn’t lucky enough to be the King’s cousin or have other siblings to continue the line, and Sansa knew his wife would be contemptuous of him, because Sansa knew how stupid little noble girls thought.

Sansa was angry that he came to her with bruises every single day and no one but her seemed to care.

Sansa was angry that Wyndan was almost certainly destined to become spiteful like Petyr, or withdrawn like her.

But, despite all that, Sansa refused to give up. Anger, resentment, humiliation—she stalked them all and devoured them, absorbed them into herself, so they could not touch him, at least for now.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on how, but she was pretty sure Petyr had done this for her too, at least a little.

Because Petyr Baelish had known theirs was a stupid, stupid world.

*

Wyndan cleared his throat and Sansa realized that he must have been standing there waiting for her to say something for a good five minutes.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Ser Wyndan,” she said. “I’m so tired today! Oh, it looks like you have a little wound that needs treating.”

“Again,” he said softly. “It’s going to be so embarrassing when the king and queen come.”

Sansa couldn’t bear to look at the sadness and shame in his eyes. “Don’t you worry about that. I have a little secret to share with you. They’re not going to be coming after all. But it would make everyone sad to know that, so I’m not going to tell them just yet.”

Wyndan covered his mouth and tried to say something that sounded like, “I won’t tell.”

Sansa just hugged him, and got out her little medicine box. As she was applying a bandage, Wyndan said, “Lady Sansa, may I ask you a question?”

“I love questions,” she said.  
  
“Today Ser Morley scolded me for playing a trick on Rickard so I could land a blow against him. He said it wasn’t good or honorable. I don’t understand.”

“Well,” Sansa began, “Ser Wyndan, it’s always important that a knight fights forthrightly, with honor, and that means following the rules.”

“But the rules are unfair!” Wyndan said. “If you follow the rules and you’re small like me, you’ll never win. Why can’t they change the rules?”

Sansa swallowed hard. _I have no good answer to this question. Because I don’t think there is one._

She fixed a weak and insincere smile on her face. “You ask good questions, Wyndan, and I don’t know how to really answer them.”

“Are there _any_ lords like me who don’t use swords all the time?”

 _Oh, I knew one,_ Sansa thought. She’d resisted telling him about Petyr. She’d told him about her father and The Hound and Loras Tyrell and Dontos Holland and even Tyrion Lannister. But not Petyr. But what else could she do now?

“I knew Petyr Baelish, who was Lord Paramount of the Trident, Lord of Harrenhal, and Lord Protector of the Vale before the war. Obviously a very powerful man. He had—he knew my mother, who had known him when he was a boy. Apparently he—well, first you have to know that he had a nickname.”

There was a pause.

“Lady Sansa?”

“Yes?”  
  
“What was the nickname?”

“They called him LIttlefinger. As he told Lady Arya once, when I was about your age and she was even younger, it was because he was a small boy and he came from The Fingers.”

“Small?”  
  
Sansa smiled. “I was taller than Lord Baelish was when I was just a girl. And Lord Baelish never used a sword. Ever. As I said, when he was young, apparently he challenged a much older and bigger boy to a duel over a lady”—she could see Wyndan nod approvingly—“but the older and bigger boy almost killed him and left him with a terrible scar that ran from here”—she put her finger near the boy’s hip and dragged it nearly to his collarbone—”to here.” 

“He realized that fighting with swords would just get him killed, so he fought with his cleverness. He was so smart, Wyndan, just like you. And I think you could learn to fight like he did.”

“Did he die in the war, like the other heroes from your stories?”

Sansa was strangely moved by this little boy calling Petyr a hero from a story. She suddenly pictured an older Petyr there in the room with her, maybe with his hand on her shoulder, maybe with a few more wrinkles and white hair and eyes that had let go of some of the rage, and she imagined that older man smiling at this boy and laughing, and she felt her soul deaden and the life that had coursed through her more forcefully in recent days start to freeze over again.

“I almost wish I could say yes, Wyndan.” Sansa sighed and then stopped to carefully choose her words. These were going to be important. “Unfortunately, and it really does make me sad to say this, because he did some very kind things for me, he did a lot of bad things. For some of those bad things, he was sentenced to die after a trial.”

Sansa held Wyndan to her tightly, so he couldn’t see her eyes. “Wyndan, listen to me very carefully. Lord Baelish didn’t do bad things because he was small or because he couldn’t sword-fight. He did bad things because he was full of spite and hatred and he was like that because he was angry and he was angry because he was ashamed of himself and that is ultimately what corrupted him. He was so smart, but the one thing he wasn’t wise enough to understand was that the shame was on everyone else for overlooking him just because he wasn’t ever going to be big and strong. Do you understand, Wyndan?”

She felt his head nod against her chest.

“Wyndan, you can be a hero, a wise and just and kind and good hero, I swear you can, but only if you are never ashamed of who you are and what you can do. Remember, shame upon _them_ who think ill of you. Can you remember that, sweetheart? Can you?”

He nodded in a way that suggested to Sansa that she was not remaining as calm as she hoped. She took a couple of deep breaths and managed to continue in a calmer, cultivated voice.

“Promise me, Wyndan.” And she tilted his face up at her so that he could see she was serene and sure.

Apparently her smile was still enough to reassure him. Any clouds of doubt or worry had vanished.

“I promise, Lady Sansa.” And then he hugged her and dashed out of the room, off to some other adventure.

Why had she done that? she asked herself as she sank back into her chair. Why had she made him promise? What good would it do, save to add bitterness to his cup on top of everything else that was coming for him?

Gods, what a stupid world. And who stupider in it but her?

*

Arya and Sansa were sharing a very oversized chair. They’d found it and had never quite decided _what_ its purpose had once been. It was so big that even old Mountain Clegane would have found it roomy, but still small enough that there wouldn’t have been room for one of the boys to sit between Sansa and Arya now.

Of course there had been people who knew what was probably the pedestrian and uninteresting story of this almost assuredly pedestrian and uninteresting chair. _Had_ been. But now the chair was just one of the many small mysteries of the curious little private world of the orphaned Stark sisters.

Sansa was pretending at embroidering, while Arya rested her head on her sister’s shoulder.

“What are you making?”

“Oh, nothing, just practicing with some new colors.”

“Must be hard to do with me in the way.”

Before Sansa could assure her sister that she was never “in the way,” Arya let out a huge sigh. “Gods, _look_ at me, Sansa. Sighing and pining— _pining_. You’d think I was—”

“Me,” Sansa cut in. And then she laughed.

Arya did too, but more softly. “Why d’you always mock your younger self?”

“My younger self sometimes deserves it, Arya. There are things I did—I said—I know I’ve said I’m sorry, but sorry doesn’t erase things. I’m so glad you have Gendry, you deserve that happiness, the world owes—”

Arya’s gasp seemed to get caught in her throat. She just stared at her sister.

“You—you think—all of it—the idiot bickering lords, the terrors, the loneliness—you think it’s _what you deserve_.”

Sansa felt like a mute.

There were the oddest mix of emotions on Arya’s face. Anger and compassion and, of all things, amusement. “Sansa, I’ve _murdered_ people. Lots of them,” said Arya. “Arguably, they deserved it, but still, it’s a heavy thing—to take not just all that they are, but everything they were going to be, for good or for ill. If the universe were going to have quarrels, it would have one with me too.”

She paused to look at Sansa, who was still quiet. “You know, Sansa, maybe this feast will bring you the happiness you thought you weren’t going to get, you know, if you let it try. Too bad your good suitor will have to chase off the rabble. I overheard Glover in the garden—he’s obviously so happy Jon won’t be coming.”

Sansa gasped. “How does Lord Glover know that?”

She knew the answer before the question was fully out of her mouth. _Talking to Wyndan. The blasted windows._ How could she have been so staggeringly stupid?

Arya just shrugged. She was not grasping the significance here.

Sansa said, in an odd, hissing whisper. “Right, so they’re not coming. Jon said they’re not—they can’t—no one can come up from King’s Landing. But I _said_ they were. I was going to keep up the ruse to help me keep them in line until Gendry returns and _then_ I would make a last-minute announcement that they wouldn’t be able to come.”

Now it was Arya’s turn to be silent.

“Arya, this is bad. They’re angry. They’re really angry because I’m harsher on them and kinder to the artisans and the tradesmen than father was and it’s hitting them in the coin purse. They're angry enough to do something. And now they know I’ve lied. They know I wouldn’t do that unless I felt weak. They _know_ this is their best time to act, if they indeed intend to act.”

Her sister was on board now. “What do we do?”

“I need you to get a message to Gendry, somehow. He needs to come back, quick, and not alone. I think we’re becoming unsafe at Winterfell.” 

* 

“Petyr, I may be in a bit of trouble.”

The apparition immediately sat next to her and pantomimed stroking her hair. “Tell me.”

“I said too much. Things I shouldn’t have. Because—”

His stupid eyes implored her to continue as she channeled old, confused memories of the Eyrie to try and associate her actual memory of his hand on her face with the apparition’s tantalizing, but illusory caresses. 

“Because I wasn’t careful when I was talking to that little boy who has become so dear to me. Undone by tender feelings for another.” She looked _hard_ into his eyes. “What an idiot.”

He sighed. “I thought that would be the lesson you remembered best. I taught it to you in blood.”

Sansa looked at him and raised her eyebrows. “As I recall, sweet Lord Baelish, you taught me many lessons in blood.”

“Yes, but that one was with _my_ blood. I had hoped that would underscore its importance.”

Sansa couldn’t help but laugh.

The apparition smirked. “So, now they know that Gendry is not here and the little whispers about the royal presence are deliberate lies?”

Sansa nodded.

“Those are not ideal circumstances.”

“Indeed not,” said Sansa. “But, I hold the advantage in that they don’t know I know they know I’m lying. Arya will get the word out to Gendry, and between her, Ser Morley, and a few others, I know that we can stand against them if I can’t win us a delay with my words.”

Petyr was pleased. “Good. Well done. The best way to deal with a mistake is to quickly respond, to put it behind you, to figure out how to use it to your advantage. Everything can be used to your advantage when you’re clever, precious Sansa.”

“I think I’ve got a main plan and a secondary plan already in my mind,” she replied.

“As someone who was nearly as wise as me is supposed to have said, Lady Stark, you may survive us yet.”

“Or, I’m about to end up like my father.”

“There are much, much worse things to be, Sweetling. Now, sleep.”

Sansa closed her eyes, mind still reeling. _Did he just compliment my father? That settles it. He_ is _all in my mind. My lords are conspiring against me and I am insane._

She opened her eyes to see that the apparition was kissing her collarbone and his hands were wandering in a most inappropriate fashion.

_Then again…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to acknowledge two debts here:
> 
> 1\. The "What a stupid world" refrain comes from 'The Raccoon Story' series of Calvin and Hobbes comics. They're the last set of comics found here: https://www.progressiveboink.com/2012/4/21/2912173/calvinhobbes
> 
> 2\. Yes, Arya's quote about being a murderer is absolutely meant to be a paraphrase of the famous Bill Munny quote from _Unforgiven_. (" _Unforgiven_ , but with Arya as Bill Munny"--now there's an AU I wish I had the talent to write.)


	4. Cracks Abound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa confronts her lords, and it is all worse than she had dared to imagine.
> 
> Please note that ALL TRIGGER WARNINGS ARE IN EFFECT FOR THIS CHAPTER. I will preface the final chapter with a brief summary of this chapter so that anyone who wishes to skip this one can easily do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to emphasize one more time that all the trigger warnings in the tags are fully in effect in this chapter. Again, I will provide a summary with the next chapter so that anyone who needs to give this one a pass can do so.

It had been a long time since Sansa had woken up having to stifle screams.

Petyr was beside himself. 

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Sweetling!”

“What are you still doing here?” Sansa was furious. What if someone had come in, what if someone _saw_? Where was his sense of caution? Not once, in all the years that he had been coming to her, had he ever been there when she woke up. Until today. 

He was trying to hold her hand to comfort her and reassure her. _Why couldn’t he touch her? Gods be cursed, why couldn’t he just touch her?_

“You were so upset last night, I just thought it would be g-good and n-nice to…”

Sansa softened at this unexpected vulnerability. She had always known Petyr had had this in him. She had so longed to see it from the living, breathing man.

“Petyr Baelish, are you at a loss for words?”

“Regrettably, Sweetling, one of the consequences of my…situation is that I have reverted to some of my former, foolish gallantry. It upsets me to have, once again, brought you pain when I have only wanted to bring you happiness. My lot in both life and death. Justice is cruel.”

The apparition’s eyes were sadder and less angry than she remembered.

“Petyr, I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but you have no idea how much I wish you could touch me.”

The apparition tried to stroke her shoulders and run his fingers through her hair and Sansa was certain she would start to cry.

“Thank you for staying with me.” 

“Sweetling,” he said, “you sound genuinely worried.”

“It’s just—I have this awful feeling that the world isn’t on my side today. And I don’t want to listen to these stupid lords complain that their personal fortunes are in danger just because the weavers and cobblers of this world are able to put a little more food on the table these days.”

The apparition looked at her again, and the familiar look was back in his eyes. “Initiative, Sansa. Keep the initiative. Your words can serve as arms for at least one more day.”

Sansa cursed Justice. How dare Justice decide that making Petyr Baelish pay for his crimes was more important than allowing Sansa Stark to once—just once—receive the affection that she so desperately craved?

*

“Lady Stark, your failure to understand the precariousness of our situation is most disturbing.”

“Lord Royce,” Sansa began, barely able to conceal her contempt, “I sincerely doubt the situation of a house as ancient and noble as yours is”—she paused—“precarious.” 

Sansa hoped that, among the Seven and the Old Gods and the fire god and any other gods who were out there, there was one who would give Andar Royce what he deserved. He shouldn’t have even been her problem, at least not to this extent, but in the wake of the war, the Royces had been granted additional holdings in the North, which made him hers to deal with.

“I can provide evidence!” he asserted.

“Good! I commanded you to do so ages ago. I look forward to both reviewing your figures and getting to enjoy the rare experience of being obeyed by my own lords!”

“Lady Stark! That was uncalled for.”

“Lord Glover, do you presume to tell me how to conduct myself?”

“My lady,” he began, “we all admired the cunning of your strategy in the winter. You used what you learned from that mincing little foreigner Littlefinger so well. Buying off the smallfolk with extra food and coin protected us from uprisings we could scarcely afford. We were happy to make these sacrifices. But now that it is Spring, we must be allowed to make up for our generosity."

“Lord Glover, you believe that I suggested more generous treatment of the smallfolk as mere strategy?”

“I had hoped it was the case, Lady Stark. I was hoping that a woman who was smart enough to get us through the winter would be smart enough to realize that her power could be threatened if she did not recognize certain…interests.”

Sansa took a deep breath.

“What an interesting choice of words, Lord Glover.”

He laughed. “Do you presume to threaten me, Lady Stark? With what army? Lord Gendry is, as I understand it, not exactly at the gates yet. Or will you write to your cousin the King? Ah, but he’s dealing with his own problems in the south, isn’t he? Such a shame, really. Lady Stark, as I see it, you are unprotected. As I see it, I could step forward and run you through with my blade right now and no one—”

The door behind Sansa flew open, and something—Sansa couldn’t figure out what—ran in front of her.

A tiny little voice rang out: “Don’t you dare hurt my lady!”

 _But why--?_ Sansa thought. _Was he eavesdropping?_

“Wyndan!” she shouted. “No!”

But it was too late. Glover had responded almost reflexively. There was blood and brain all over the stone floor in front of Sansa. He’d almost carved the poor little boy in half. It had taken about a second, and now the heir of White Harbor was no more. 

Sansa’s breath became uneven and a wave of paralysis and nausea almost took her.

“Lady Stark,” said Lord Glover in a weak voice, as though he wanted to begin an apology. An apology! The look on Sansa’s face must have confused him into silence. There was great uncertainty in the air. They were waiting for the screams, for the tears.

Sansa only stared at them. She wasn’t struggling to contain herself. There were simply no wails or sobs to be had. She had crossed some sort of event horizon into a serene acceptance of the sheer futility of pleas for mercy in a world such as theirs. She had already shrieked and cried enough for many lifetimes. And her lamentations had yielded nothing. But women’s shrieks and tears never did.

“Well, my lords, take a good look. Admire the work of arms. A tiny little boy lies dead in front of us, and what a threat he was.” Sansa could taste the bitterness in her voice.

She noticed some of Wyndan’s blood was on her hand and sleeve, and she swallowed hard.

“Is this the sort of great triumph you dreamt of as boys in the practice yard? Oh what a _stupid_ world we have made, my lords. We perpetuate ‘noble morality’ that valorizes the bigger boys who slice smaller ones to bits and demonizes the little boys when they try to use their minds to defend themselves. And then we tell stupid little girls like me that the boys who are good with the swords are the only ones worth loving. We sing songs about virtuous and noble men out of one side of our mouths, and then we plot against them with the other. Maybe it would have been better if the Walkers had taken us all.”

There was total silence. It was as if all the rest of Winterfell was frozen in ice and Sansa alone had life.  

“But, I suppose the world is what it is, and who am I to deny you exactly what you desire? You butchers don’t want to deal with me, so I will grant your wish. I shall yield to my lady sister. I am sure she will exact justice in this, and in so many other matters.

“Do remember, dear lords, that Lady Arya has distinguished herself in the arts of killing in ways you could only hope for. As you leave this room, I would invite you to consider the following questions. Will Lady Arya decide to deal with you directly? Or might she use the face of one you love? One you hope to love? Oh, my lords, how will you trust again?”  
  
In that moment, Sansa Stark smirked _._

“You may also wish to ask yourself if Lady Arya will toy with you by using creeping poisons that drag out your suffering. Or will she do you the mercy of coming at you directly, with steel?”  
  
They stared at her as though she had just given them an extended address in Old Ghiscari.

 _I_ am _just as foolish as father,_ Sansa thought. The realization made her happy. Everyone always said that Arya was her father’s daughter. She couldn’t recall anyone ever saying that about her.

Well, they would now.

But she had sworn that day in King’s Landing that, no matter how much she loved her father, she would not end up like him. She would not be captured, stripped of dignity, turned into a mockery, and then, finally, killed.

She had kept that promise to herself through years of horror and sorrow and cold, and she was not going to fail herself now. She was the Lady of Winterfell and the Warden in the North, and the terms for what happened in these walls would be _hers._

Arya would understand. With a hand far steadier than she could have ever imagined, Sansa drew out a dagger.  
  
She almost laughed. The lords were still dumbstruck, still waiting, as though they expected her to summon some sort of magical force and obliterate them all. Fools! If she had such a power, she would have used it ages ago.

“This silence is, alas, nothing more than what I expect of you,” she said. “And now I’m going to leave you to think about my words and do what you will. It is no longer any concern of mine.”

She fixed her eyes upon them good and hard, one last time. Ugly faces. No intelligence, no wittiness, no style—just blocky, brutish, brainless.

Good gods, she should have done this a long time ago. 

“Sleep well, my lords.”

As realization dawned on them, she drew the blade across her own throat. Her final thoughts were mingled. Would this have hurt less if she had asked Arya to show her how? Did it hurt like this when they did it to Petyr? _Poor Petyr. Poor Wyndan._

_Poor me._


	5. Flowing Like a River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Petyr reunite somewhere between now and never. Sansa demands certain pledges from her Mockingbird. 
> 
> The events covered in the trigger warnings are mentioned in this chapter/the summary in the notes, but they are not described in any detail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Ch. 4, Sansa confronted her lords. Wyndan was eavesdropping and charged into the room when he thought he heard the lords threaten Sansa. He was cut down by Gawen Glover. Sansa, frustrated with the futility of changing Westeros for the better, made the decision to take her own life.

Sansa hadn’t _expected_ anything. Of course that hadn’t ever stopped her from imagining what it might like be. Whatever came after death, that is.

She had considered the matter many times. What orphan wouldn’t?

That it would be like thishad never dawned upon her.

She’d always known the notion of a happy, springtime world where she would be surrounded by all the loved ones she’d lost and all the memories would finally go away forever was a foolish girl’s dream.

But had an afterlife of disembodiment, detachment, and the strange healing those things could bring, even if one was completely alone, truly been too much to ask for? 

Apparently so. She still felt very much like she always had—except angrier.

Sansa had always assumed that the wights and all those people the Red priests reanimated and legendary figures like the Stoneheart were so full of anger because they had been denied their rightful rest. But, what if they were angry because none of it ever ended, even after death?

_What a stupid, stupid world._

She looked down the street that stretched out in front of her. It could have been just like any street in any little city in the Seven Kingdoms. It was gloomy and foggy. Sansa wondered if that was how it always was. People were everywhere, and no one, Sansa included, appeared to know where they were going. There was an unpleasant chill.

She was surprised to feel her sleeve rustle against her skin. So, there was solidity here. That was good to know.

“Lady Sansa?” 

Wyndan was staring up at her. Mercifully, he bore no outward signs of his unfortunate end. She presumed that meant she didn’t either.

“Ser Wyndan,” she said softly, leaning down to hug him. “Oh, my sweet hero. I am so sorry. How…are you—?”

He struck Sansa as relatively calm, considering, well, everything. He was even able to smile at her.

“I was scared because I was alone and didn’t know anyone, but I feel better now. Except that I’m hungry, Lady Sansa.”

She nodded and began to study the various establishments on the street. It didn’t take long to find something familiar.

It was a relatively humble looking building, but it had a pleasant terrace where people could sit outside. It looked safe for a lady and a child, which is why she was shocked to see the sign near the door. No words, just a sigil. A mockingbird. _That_ mockingbird.

Sansa cautiously moved closer and subtly placed herself between Wyndan and the window, just in case this was like the establishment he’d had in King’s Landing. She was relieved to see regular-looking people eating and drinking.

She had to take a moment to think. _This isn’t_ exactly _like being alive, is it? That Wyndan found me and I found Petyr, that’s too much of a coincidence. There must be some trick, some method to find the people you want to see._  

Her parents. Suddenly she realized the promise of her parents was real and close. Even as she had these thoughts, she swore the weather was clearing and light was beckoning her to the end of the street, to some greener idyll.

Sansa knew she could—she should—take Wyndan’s hand and follow the sun. They’d find her family, and they wouldn’t be hungry or lonely. 

 _But I will still be angry, and the Royces and Glovers of the world will escape their justice. You’re not_ here _by accident, Sansa._

And thus she made the choice in death that a small, troublesome part of her had always wished she’d made in life. She let herself go to Petyr.

She couldn’t help but smile when she walked into the tavern. The interior had his soft, elegant touch.

A supercilious man walked up to her. 

“Your child can’t come in,” he said.

Sansa looked down at Wyndan and winked before replying.

“What delightful courtesy you have, sir. I wish to speak to the owner.”

“He doesn’t see—”

“He _will_ see me. You go and you tell him the one he has been waiting for has arrived.”

The way his eyes fixed on his hair and realization spread across his face almost made Sansa laugh. She had gambled that death had been no obstacle to Petyr’s obsession, and the man’s panic proved she was right to make the bet.

“I am sure that if you go find him quickly, I won’t mention how this conversation unfolded, sir.”

He nodded and disappeared down a set of stairs. Sansa had to suppress a genuine smile when she heard a grunt, a door slammed in haste, and eager footsteps that were only brough under control just before he appeared in the doorframe. 

Sansa realized she would soon look into his eyes—his real eyes! How she had missed them, how she had needed them and all the cleverness and machination they had promised.

She realized her breathing had become more shallow and she felt warm. 

He emerged from the darkness of the basement corridor. Sansa had never seen him so bereft of self-containment. He couldn’t conceal anything. Joy, sadness, and—after he looked down to see Wyndan holding her hand—a certain resignation all passed through his eyes.

She, on the other hand, had never felt so self-contained. “My lord,” she said. “I confess I thought you’d be happier to see me.”

“Well,” he said, and as his words built, so did a little bit of his self-mastery, “I do feel a selfish joy at the sight of my only desire standing before me once again. And, as I do have some sense of how the rules work around here, Sweetling, I know you had to _want_ to see me.” 

His sly, knowing little smile—an image Sansa had kept with her all this time—returned to his face for a moment, but then his countenance became serious. “But I have become soft-hearted. Or I returned to such a state—I no longer know. You are too young to stand here. And to be here with your own son. I can’t imagine the end was pleasant, and I hope you never thought me so much a monster that I would wish you such an ill end just to have you with me again.” He paused and then added, clearly out of obligation, “I am glad, though, that you were able to find the happiness of a husband and family.”

Sansa knew that she shouldn’t be so delighted by his boyish pining and jealousy, but she couldn’t help it. It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve to be strung along just a little.

“Did I see a terrace on the side of this building?”

Her question surprised him and she could sense the wheels of his mind beginning to turn. “You did, Lady Stark.”

“Take me there.”

Wordlessly, he offered her a very stiff, formal arm. She grasped it gently, running her fingers softly along the silk fabric. He quivered a little. 

She looked down at Wyndan, who hadn’t let go of her hand. “Let’s go Wyndan.” She noticed how Petyr’s eyes narrowed at the name Wyndan.

The fog had cleared, but it was still a bit clammy. Petyr guided her to a cushioned seat and helped Wyndan up beside her. He sat on her other side.

He peered around her to look at Wyndan again. “So, my young friend, with a name like yours, you must be a Manderly. Am I right? Do I have the honor of addressing the heir of White Harbor?”

Wyndan nodded.

Petyr’s face was alight with indignation and he leaned over toward Sansa so he could whisper. 

”They made you marry _Wylis Manderly_?”

Sansa couldn’t make herself play Ice Queen any longer. She burst out laughing.

After she got herself back under control, she decided to end Petyr’s misery. “Wyndan is not my son. He’s my ward. I never married.”

She let herself linger in his eyes, which hinted at a mind that was in the process of discovering that its true purpose hadn’t slipped beyond recall or desire.

Wyndan spoke up with an amusing boldness. “I am Lady Sansa’s knight. She gave me her favor. Who are you?” 

“Oh Ser Wyndan, forgive me! This is my old friend Lord Petyr Baelish.”

“Lord Paramount of the Trident, Lord of Harrenhal, and Lord Protector of the Vale,” said Wyndan solemnly. He paused for a moment and looked at Sansa as though he was very confused.

“I thought you said he did bad things?” 

Sansa looked at Petyr and bit her lip. Petyr chuckled.

“I wish I could say Lady Stark misled you, but, unfortunately, she did not. But I promise you have nothing to fear from me. I adore and serve Lady Stark and will treat anyone she has shown her favor to as a friend.” The little boy seemed satisfied enough by this.

“Wyndan,” said Sansa, “I have seen some lovely flowers behind the terrace. Would you pick some for me?”

“There are some fine rose bushes by the back door,” Petyr added. “And tell them to feed you—you must be hungry.”

Wyndan nodded and bounced off to play in the grass.

Sansa turned herself to face Petyr and gently placed his hand on top of hers. He trembled again and there was vulnerability writ all over him.

“You sounded positively natural talking to him. It was charming, Petyr.”

At the sound of his name, he grasped her hand more tightly and leaned in so he could murmur into her hair.

“If having your sister cut my throat was the price of having my name fall from your lips”—he moved so he could look into her eyes—“then I never made a better bargain.”

Sansa smiled triumphantly as he deftly pulled her into his lap and took a sharp breath when he tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her lips down toward his. 

 _Oh gods, how I have missed the taste of mint._  

They rested against one another, lips tantalizingly close.

“Justice has given me more than I deserve,” he murmured.

“Damn what you deserve, Lord Baelish,” said Sansa. She looked hard into his eyes. “This is about me.”

She could tell her intensity had unsettled him, so she placed some little kisses that played around the edges of the hair on Petyr’s chin and then gently pulled his head onto her shoulder. She even encouraged his hands to caress and explore the area around her breasts. They sat together for some time, and Sansa hoped Petyr’s employees were keeping Wyndan busy. 

Finally, she broke the silence. “Why in the world are you running a little tavern?”

“Some force out there is not happy with me. It's torture. There’s nothing to do. Supplies materialize when needed. Employees do their work without complaint. There’s no coin here, so I don't even get to calculate profits. All I do is deal with people. Good people. Earnest people who give me no cause to exercise my mind or display my sharp wit of such renown. Let no one say the gods didn’t carefully consider how to punish me.”

Sansa leaned in and laughed into his hair. “Mmmm, wittiness. Petyr, no one at Winterfell was witty.” 

“Oh, my poor Sansa, they bored you up there in the North, didn’t they?”

“Goodness yes. Do you know how I entertained myself?

Sansa regretted even opening this door. _Am I really going to tell him this?_

“Yes, Sweetling?”

“I imagined you came to visit me, in the form of a ghost.”

His eyebrows were raised, but he let her continue. “I mean, at the time I actually thought it might be you, a real ghost, but I realize it was my imagination now. You would comfort me when I was upset, give me advice, and, well, make fun of people with me.” 

Sansa admired the relative restraint of Petyr’s grin. Gods, now he knew she was his.   

“Well, now you have me for a long as you want me,” he said. “I promise you’ll never be bored at my side.”

Sansa slid off his lap in an attempt to force herself to get serious. She wanted to do nothing but kiss and be touched, but she also knew there were larger concerns.

“No, Lord Baelish, I don’t imagine I will.”

Petyr picked up on the change in mood immediately. “Oh?”

“I have a proposition for you.”

He began to drum the fingers of his free hand on the bench rail.

Sansa told him the whole sordid tale of the petty lords, the ineffectual Iron Throne, the poor little boy who had died to try and save her, and of the sheer contempt that had caused her to take the matter of her life into her own hands. He listened carefully.

“Petyr, I truly thought I had learned what I needed from your example. I thought I could set aside the less savory part of you. I thought I didn’t need it because I am a Stark of Winterfell and you are—”

“The Lord of Sheepshit?”

Sansa was silent.  
  
“Do I detect a hint of apology or an acknowledgement that _I was right_ from a member of the high nobility?”

Sansa’s eyes flashed. “Let me be very clear. This is not an apology. You are owed no apologies from me. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“What you get from me, Baelish, is two-fold: I admit I was wrong and I admit that I need you to complete me and help me destroy it all. Because I will destroy it all. They will all pay for what they did to that little boy who just wanted to protect me.”

“Oh?” said Petyr, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Every bit of that world, from the worship of brute force to the contempt for regular people, is rotten. The damned White Walkers didn’t change things, the horrid winter didn’t change things, and I sure know the cut up bodies of a little boy and”—her voice took on a mocking tone—“a sad and disturbed noble lady won’t change things.”

“What do you propose, Lady Stark?” 

“To use all the advantages of this existence—to create an attacking force with a purpose. To strike against the corrupted parts of that world with an exquisite, intelligent violence that their mortal minds have not the imagination to contemplate. To leave ashes.” 

She held his gaze, delighting in the tension of the silence.

“Surely, Petyr Baelish, you have not only started to figure out the rules of this world, but how to use them to your advantage?” 

He smirked. All the exhaustion and frustration of the repression Sansa had known in life was about to explode through her. She could have started ripping his clothes off right there.

“Well,” Petyr began, “perhaps I have given some idle consideration to such matters.”

Sansa loved how intense, empowered, and, oddly enough, playful all this talk of terrorizing mortals made her feel. She stroked Petyr’s cheek as she said, in the most comely voice she could muster, “To be quite frank, I am a little disappointed that I was not greeted at the gates of this world by someone hailing me as the dark Queen and offering to take me to my King Petyr.”

She could see it in his eyes. He was  _hers_. 

“It will all be yours, Sansa. Whatever I have to do.”

He took her hand and brought it close to his lips. “To dealing out our own justice,” he murmured, just before placing a light kiss just behind her knuckles.

Sansa brought his hand to her lips. “To the King and Queen in Death.”

This time Petyr didn’t just grasp her hair or her waist. He gently pushed her back onto the cushions so he could give her not-so-gentle kisses and not-so-gently squeeze her nipples through her dress. Sansa was disturbed by how quickly her dreams of terrorizing gluttonous and brutish lords faded under Petyr’s ardent attentions.

“Petyr,” she said, “if we don’t learn how to keep our hands off one another, we’ll never finishing figuring out how to wreak vengeance over the entire world.”

“Fortunately, we have all the time we need,” he said, as he started to kiss her neck.

There was a rustle in the grass and they both froze. Wyndan was approaching. They quickly sat up, smoothed their hair and clothes, and tried to regain their composure.

He clearly hadn’t seen anything. “Lady Sansa, here are your flowers.”

“They are lovely, Ser Wyndan. Thank you.”

Wyndan climbed back up next to Sansa. “I ate a lot and now I’m tired. Can I sleep?” He snuggled into her shoulder. 

“Come here,” Sansa said, and she pulled Wyndan into her lap. He leaned into her shoulder and stretched his legs out into Petyr’s lap. As Wyndan began to nod off, Petyr clasped her free hand in his and turned to simply look at her.

Gods it was good to feel desired and to desire in return.

 _What a vision this must make,_ she thought _. I forsake my kin for the arms of a man who will be sung as a villain ten generations from now so he and I can plot some grand, insane revenge, and a child I have stolen away sleeps in my lap._  

She snuggled back into Petyr’s shoulder.  

_Shame on anyone who thinks ill of me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phrase "beyond recall or desire" is from Tolkien, of course.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!


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